When
by sneetchstar
Summary: Abbie tries to sort out her feelings for her partner. One-shot.


**A/N: I wrote most of this in July, before we knew anything about season 3 (kind of forgot about it). I reworked it to include Crane's absence, but decided to leave out pretty much everything else that has happened thus far in season 3.**

Abbie isn't quite sure when it happened. When this odd, prickly, _cranky_ relic from the Revolutionary War wormed his way into her heart.

Maybe it was when he tried to sacrifice himself to the cause by drinking that poison.

Maybe it was when she made him agree to leaving her in purgatory and he tenderly held her and whispered promises to return for her.

Maybe it was when he hugged her so tightly he lifted her off her feet when she summoned him to purgatory.

Maybe it was some time after Katrina's death, when he was working through the complicated process of mourning a wife who had betrayed him. Betrayed _them._ A wife who died at his hands. Accidental or not (even he isn't sure), he still held the blade that plunged into her heart.

And then he left. He left, and Abbie appeared to move on with her life, completing her original goal of joining the FBI while he was away doing God only knows what.

But even though they were separated, even though he never called or wrote – not once – and even though she found temporary comfort in the arms of another man, he was still in her heart, burrowed deep. Hibernating.

Once he reappeared in her life, returning as suddenly as he left, he made sure to reaffirm their bond, tell her how he relied upon her, on many occasions. "Miss Mills, I cannot express how grateful I am for your solid presence in my life." "Miss Mills, I was adrift without you." "Miss Mills, you are all I have in this time." She is his rock, his strength, and he means to make certain she never doubts him again.

But what Ichabod Crane does not know is that he is _her_ rock as well. Her anchor. The only thing keeping her from taking an assignment... anywhere but _here_. She returned and stays because she knows she is needed in Sleepy Hollow. She stays because it is her duty as a Witness. But most of all, she stays for him. She knows he can survive without her, at least for nine months. Longer than that, who knows? He has said outright that he feels lost without her, so while he may survive, she reasons he would likely wind up some sort of eccentric hermit.

However, she also knows, in the deepest, darkest corner of her brain that she would be lost without him as well. She can't explain it, not to Jenny, not even to herself, but she knows she needs him. Now that she's back home, she finds she still misses him when they are apart. So much so that when they retire to their separate rooms, they still communicate via text messages throughout the night. When she invariably wakes up in the small hours from her latest nightmare, there will be at least one message from across the hall waiting on her phone.

 _This house hunting show is insufferable._

 _What on earth is a Trap Queen?_

 _I should like to try Thai food as soon as possible._

 _I hope you are sleeping well. I know you often find it difficult after a battle._

 _What kind of coffee would you like in the morning?_

Ranging from ridiculous to mundane to serious, there is always something. She will usually reply, if her brain is functioning enough.

 _I know. People worry about the stupidest things. Walls can be painted, come on._

 _I am. :)_

 _We will go this weekend. Promise._

 _Working on it, thanks. You should be sleeping, too._

 _I would like coffee blacker than the souls of our enemies._

xXx

 _I had another nightmare about Henry. Please call on me if you awaken soon._

Abbie woke around 1:30 a.m. to find this text. It had been sent less than fifteen minutes ago.

She climbs out of bed and crosses the hall, where she lightly knocks on his door, then turns the knob. "Hey," she says, poking her head in. "Which one was it this time?"

"The Accuser," he says, setting his book aside. He's named the recurring ones. The Accuser is the one where Henry – he's always Henry, never Jeremy – blames Crane for all the troubles he encountered in his life, similar to their confrontation the night Henry died.

"How did it end this time?" she asks, leaning against the doorframe.

"His face split open and a monster emerged," he answers. "The monster then swallowed me whole."

"Then you woke up."

"Then I woke up."

"Crane," she says, "Ichabod. You know the events of Henry's life were not your fault. You were, for all intents and purposes, dead. You didn't know he existed. The blame lies solely with Katrina and you know it."

"I do," he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "I... I thought telling him that night in the street would... exorcise that guilt. I know, in my head, that I am not to blame. How could I be? But apparently my heart still feels otherwise."

"I can say with some authority that the heart is not always the wisest organ in the human body," she drily responds. _Boy, do I know that._ Between her checkered past and her growing feelings for her partner, Abbie is well acquainted with the foolishness of the heart.

"Ah, but that is why I have you, Lieutenant," he says. She automatically smiles at hearing him call her "Lieutenant". Ever since her little trip to the past, she finds she craves hearing his voice pronouncing that word that way. It doesn't matter that she's not a Lieutenant anymore. She will always be _his_ Lieutenant, and that's all that matters. "For you are very wise indeed."

"I don't know about that, but I do know I'm getting pretty good at talking you down off the ledge," she says. She steps in and sits on the edge of his bed, fleetingly wondering what it would feel like to have him spooned behind her, his long, strong arm around her, holding her against the hard planes of his body.

"I am sorry to be such a constant bother," he replies.

"Crane... I didn't mean it like that," she says, waving her hand. "I just—" Her hand drops on the bedspread.

"I know you didn't," he interrupts. "You are so good to me that sometimes I fear I am taking advantage of your kindness." He reaches out with an impossibly long arm and places his hand over hers.

"You're my partner and my friend. My best friend. You're not taking advantage of anything," she reassures him. "Don't forget about the times you've pulled me back to reality."

"Fewer and farther between, especially lately."

"Oh, are we keeping score now? Is that what this is?" she asks, a smile creeping onto her face.

He huffs a small laugh and squeezes her hand. "Of course not." He yawns, covering his mouth with his other hand.

"Feeling better?" she asks, her eyes briefly flitting to his bare chest, and a barrage of questions fly through her traitorous brain. _Is he wearing anything under there? Does he sleep curled on his side or flat on his back, splayed across the bed like a giant, lanky starfish? Does he snore? Does he talk in his sleep?_

"Yes, thank you. As always," he answers.

She stands, ready to make a hasty retreat before she finds herself climbing in there with him. "Try to go back to sleep, okay?"

He nods, scooting back down and pulling his covers up. "Good night, Miss Mills."

She has the urge to tuck him in and kiss his forehead, but resists. "Good night, Crane. Sweet dreams," she replies, moving towards the door.

"Of what shall I dream?" he asks, his voice becoming thick and sleepy.

 _Me. Dream of me._ "Donut holes," she says. "And cappuccino."

"Volcano chicken and sticky rice," he corrects, naming his new favorite from the Thai restaurant they visited last weekend.

She laughs. "Good night." _He sleeps curled on his side_. She exits, closing the door behind her, and returns to her room.

She automatically looks at her phone for a second before climbing back into her bed and looks at her wallpaper photo for a moment – an old selfie of the two of them together, taken as a way to explain to him what a "selfie" is – and sets her phone back on the nightstand. She slides under the covers and is asleep in minutes.

xXx

When there are no demons to fight, Abbie gets antsy. Not because she's itching for a fight; far from it. It's not even the waiting and wondering, the looking over her shoulder at every moment, wondering when, _when_ is something going to happen.

Abbie gets antsy when things are quiet because her brain wanders to other things. Other people.

Person.

Crane.

No demons around means her mind is free to watch him. Think about him. Have _thoughts_ about him.

She sometimes thinks it would be easier if Katrina was still alive. She could continue to push aside those feelings, the warm, squishy, fuzzy feelings in the pit of her stomach she fleetingly has about him. Even when the witch's presence made him lose focus, lose track of what their purpose is (so much so that Abbie sometimes wondered if Katrina had him under some sort of spell), she couldn't bring herself to hate him. As much as she wanted to just wash her hands of it all and walk away, she knew those were only surface feelings. Deep down, she knows she would never – _could_ never – abandon him.

She doesn't miss the hot, gnawing guilt that would eat at her when she occasionally caught herself having thoughts and feelings about a married man, she knows that much.

No. It would _not_ be easier if Katrina was still alive.

Abbie heaves a sigh and returns to Grace's journal, flipping through the familiar pages, looking for something, anything new to help them, while across the table, Crane pores over a large book written in German that they recently discovered in (as in Jenny recently stole from) a storage garage rented by some known Hessians.

Her phone buzzes, and she glances at it.

 _Hey, Special Agent. Going to be in town in two weeks. Would love to see you if you're not too busy fighting the Boogeyman._

Calvin Riggs. She sighs again and puts her phone back to sleep.

Twenty minutes later, it buzzes again.

 _I hear there's a new Indian place in town, if you're game. My brother says it's good._

She knows she should reply. She knows she needs to shut him down before he really starts to press. But she will wait a few minutes before replying.

 _Hope you are getting these texts..._

The third text comes just as Abbie is reaching for her phone to reply.

 _Sorry, didn't hear my phone. I don't know if I will be available in two weeks. My life is kind of day-to-day._

She knows he's going to have an answer for that, but she's trying to be gentle about letting him down. She does feel bad about the white lie, but she didn't want it to look like she was avoiding him, even though that is what she was doing.

"Trouble, Miss Mills?" Crane asks.

"No, not really. It's… um… Calvin. He's going to be in town and wants to see me." She pauses. "For, like, a date. I think."

His eyebrows lift. "Oh?"

"I'm not going," she says a little too quickly. Her phone buzzes again. "Here we go," she mutters.

 _C: How about I call you when I get into town?_

 _A: I don't think so, sorry._

 _C: So that's it? A flat no?_

 _A: My life is too complicated._

 _C: That sounds like an excuse._

 _A: It's the truth._

 _C: You're sure?_

 _A: I'm sure. Sorry._

Crane watches her face while she texts back and forth with Riggs, noting the slight scowl as she pokes at her phone. "It is not my place to have an opinion one way or another on this issue," he ventures. Abbie waits, counting _one, two, three…_ "However, you might wish to reconsider his offer. You deserve some respite from all—"

She holds up her hand. "We are not having this conversation again," she says, staving off the "Do you still feel romance is a complication you do not need?" and the "Despite our initial encounter, Mr. Riggs does seem to be a decent fellow" she knows are coming.

Crane closes his mouth and holds up his large hands in surrender. "You are not interested in Mr. Riggs. Fair enough."

"I am not interested in Mr. Riggs," Abbie repeats. "Just like I wasn't interested in Mr. Hawley, or Detective Morales, or any of those _other_ guys," she adds, realizing too late that perhaps she shouldn't have said "other". Or at least put so much emphasis on it.

He stares at her a moment, seeming to ponder her words. "Other?" he asks, his voice suddenly very soft.

She looks down at the journal, takes a deep breath, then looks up at him. "I am not interested in those other guys," she repeats. "I am only interested in one man." Her heart is pounding, and the words are not coming easily. Heartfelt declarations are not her specialty.

"You are?" he asks, his eyes locked on hers.

She nods. She opens her mouth, then realizes all her courage has fled. "I... I'm sorry, Crane. I can't... I shouldn't have..." She suddenly stands and begins to flee the Archives, needing some fresh air, needing to hide in the restroom, needing to be anywhere but across the table from _him._

Crane is up in a flash, his lightning-quick reflexes still as sharp as ever, and before Abbie knows it, his hand is wrapped around her elbow in a gentle but firm grip. "Abbie," he says.

She turns just as he pulls, and bumps into his chest. His arm wraps around her waist, preventing her from bolting again. "Ichabod..." Her voice comes out weak and shaky.

"You are as skittish as a colt," he softly says. "Why are you running?" He thinks he can feel her racing heartbeat against his stomach, but it may be his own.

"I shouldn't have said what I said," she answers, avoiding his gaze.

"You did not _say_ anything," he points out. "You merely implied something and I was left to guess."

"Sorry," she says, noticing that his arms are around her. "You can let go now." She doesn't really want him to let go, but she still feels rather foolish and wants to leave before she completely humiliates herself.

"I don't think I can," he says. "That is to say, I do not wish to."

"What?" She finally looks up at him.

"Or did I infer incorrectly?" he asks, that eyebrow lifting again.

She laughs, surprising them both. "Smug asshole," she says, yet she finds herself unable to stop smiling.

He doesn't dispute her words, instead pulling her closer in response. "Dear Lieutenant, you needn't have fled. I am... overjoyed," he admits, a tiny smile playing about his lips.

The tenderness in his eyes nearly makes her gasp. He has always looked on her with fondness, but this surpasses anything Abbie has ever seen before. _No one has ever looked at me this way._ "You are?" she asks, her voice barely audible.

He merely nods, leaning down and placing a soft kiss on her forehead. Her eyes close, savoring the sensation of his lips on her skin.

"My affection for you grows stronger every day," he whispers. "I have been trying to tell you, but... the words never seem to arrange themselves in a way that makes my feelings clear. Despite my habitually loquacious nature, I find myself tongue-tied when it comes to this matter." He reaches up and lightly drags his thumb down her cheek in a gentle caress. "It is quite a new experience for me."

"But..." she starts. He gently places two fingers on her lips.

"It is only so with you," he insists, answering her unasked question, telling her that he suffered no such troubles when courting Katrina.

Then it hits Abbie. All those things he says, all those proclamations about their bond, each time he tells her how much she means to him or how important she is, he was really trying to tell her something more. "You would be adrift without me?" she asks. It's the first such statement that came to mind.

"Indeed," he agrees, kissing her cheek. "You are my anchor and my beacon."

Her eyes close again. "I'm so stupid," she says, sighing and chuckling at once as she drops her head against his chest.

"You are no such thing," he disagrees. "You are one of the wisest, cleverest people I have ever known. And that's high praise considering I knew Washington, Jefferson, and Franklin." He gently lifts her chin so she is once again looking at him. "Sometimes we simply do not allow ourselves to see what is right before us." He moves his hand to caress her cheek.

She leans into his touch, craving the contact with him. "It's not easy for me," she admits. "I can't promise there won't be times where I'll try to push you away out of habit."

"I know your heart is not easily given. That simply makes me all the more grateful to be the recipient of such a gift," he says. "And I cannot promise to not have moments where I am withdrawn and disagreeable."

"I know you are still adjusting," she says, reaching up to touch his face. Her fingers stroke his beard, learning the feel of it. It has been over a year since Katrina and Henry died, and while he has made peace with it, he still has moments where something will trigger a memory, or a dream will be a little too real. Plus, there are still occasions where he feels out of place and time, even after three years. When those things happen, he tends to turn quiet and reclusive. "But you know I am always here for you."

"I have never once doubted you, Lieutenant," he says. "I fear you may not be able to say the same of me, but I can promise that you will never have a need to doubt my faithfulness to you – in any way – ever again."

She blinks, unexpected tears pricking the backs of her eyes. "Thank you." She opens her hand, pressing her palm against his cheek. "I never lost faith in you, Ichabod," she tells him. "There were a few times when I worried you were losing your focus, but... I knew you would still be there for me when it came down to it."

He smiles and catches her hand, kissing it. "Your faith and kindness are more than I deserve," he murmurs, kissing her hand again.

Abbie feels his hand on her back move, spreading his fingers wide. "I think now is when you kiss me," she quietly says.

Crane doesn't need a second invitation, and moves the hand at her cheek around to support the back of her head as he leans down to kiss her.

As his lips expertly move against hers, she melts, mindless of anything except him and how perfectly they fit together. _Oh, he can kiss..._ The thought breezes through her brain, gone as soon as it arrives.

"Oh..." she exhales once he lifts his head.

"Once more?" he breathes, clearly feeling the same thing she feels.

"You don't need to ask," she answers, lifting her chin.

"I am growing to like the 21st Century more and more," he comments just before meeting her still-parted lips with his in a kiss that is much deeper and hungrier than the first.

Their first kiss was _polite_ compared to this one. Their first kiss was a visit to the art museum, beautiful and serene. This is a visit to the amusement park, roaring down the first dip on the big roller coaster with their arms raised, the wind in their hair, and their stomachs lurching.

Her hands rove into his hair. His fingers clutch the back of her shirt. She hooks her leg around his, as though she is trying to climb him to get closer. He moves them until they are against the table, then lifts her up to sit on it, only breaking the kiss for a second. She parts her knees and he moves forward, nestling against her as she hooks her feet together behind him.

"Abbie," he gasps her name into her mouth, a bit thrown by her boldness. She chases his lips, not done yet, and catches them, thrusting her tongue back into his mouth, taking all she can. He groans and gives in, letting her take control.

She moans into his mouth, trying to pull him closer, wanting to feel all of him flush against her.

His hips move on their own, unconsciously thrusting forward a bit, pressing his swelling manhood into the warm apex of her thighs. When she moans again, he pulls away, suddenly realizing how close they are getting to the next Very Large Step. "Abbie," he repeats, his voice husky and lower than normal. "We must take care."

"Yeah," she exhales, sliding her hands from his shoulders to rest on his chest. Her feet are still hooked behind him. "Jenny or Joe could walk in at any time."

"Well, yes, but..." he caresses her cheek, noting how her normally full lips are now slightly swollen from their kisses. "My thinking was that this is not the proper location for... that activity." He pauses a moment, and she nods once, exhaling and looking down. "At least, not for our first time," he adds, mainly to see her reaction to his ribald comment.

She doesn't disappoint, exploding in a surprised laugh. "Crane! I never would have guessed..."

He kisses her forehead. "Good. Surprising you brings me immense pleasure." He kisses her lips. "And I look forward to bringing _you_ immense pleasure," he adds, his voice taking on that low, husky timbre once again.

"Oh, God..." Abbie responds, her lips seeking his out once again. She gets one fairly decent kiss before he pulls away again.

"Not now, my heart. Not here," Ichabod reminds her. "Soon."

xXx

By the time "Soon" comes, Abbie has worked herself into a near frenzy of anticipation. "Soon" was all she heard for nearly two weeks. She knew he wasn't stringing her along; he would never do that.

But the night she marched home from work, loins filled with want – no, _need_ – and head beginning to fill with steam as she prepared to grab him by the lapels and demand, "When?", he surprised her with a candlelit dinner and chocolate lava cake from her favorite bakery. They shared the cake, Crane feeding her as they sat in front of the fireplace. Then he swept her into his arms and carried her to bed.

xXx

Abbie sighs, content, her eyes closed, as Crane's hand sweeps across her stomach, his fingers light, but firm enough not to tickle.

He's very busy.

He's been busy for some time now, devoting the morning to learning every part of his Lieutenant, discovering all her secret places, committing every detail to memory.

Last night had been amazing but a bit frenzied, all hands and lips and tongues and skin and sweat and hair and groans and sighs.

Abbie, in a post-orgasmic, post-coital haze, could only mutter, "Wow."

"Witness bond?" Ichabod had questioned, looking for a reason. It had _never_ been like that with Katrina. Never that all-encompassing and mindless; never had he even come close to blacking out on orgasm before. He nearly did this time, and it left him reeling.

"Maybe," she replies. "Wow."

This morning, he is determined to take his time. This morning, he will show her how she deserves to be loved, to be worshipped, to be adored by him. Only by him.

"Mine," he murmurs, his lips never leaving her skin as he kisses a trail along her ribcage. He is feeling particularly possessive this morning.

"What was that?" Abbie asks, lifting her head to look down at him.

"Mine," Ichabod repeats, gazing back at her. Then he gently nips her stomach. "And I am yours and yours alone," he adds.

"Darn right you are," she declares, flopping her head back and closing her eyes. She lifts a lazy hand and waves it at him. "Proceed, Captain."


End file.
